


More than the Stars Above

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Elrond & Maglor, Earendil and Elwing positive, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Feanorian Positive, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Age, Gen, Happy Ending, Reconciliation, Reunions, Valinor, background Eärendil/Elwing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26002327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Elrond had lived without his parents for this long. He could certainly continue to do so if they proved to be indifferent. That didn't stop his hand from shaking when he reached out to knock on the door.
Relationships: Eärendil & Elrond Peredhel
Comments: 50
Kudos: 266
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArlenianChronicles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArlenianChronicles/gifts).



> For the wonderful ArlenianChronicles whose stunning artwork I fell instantly in love with.

It wasn’t that Elrond was nervous, exactly. He had faced far more difficult conversations than this in his many years in Middle Earth.

He couldn’t think of any, at the moment, but he was nevertheless certain it must be true.

This conversation, after all, was highly unlikely to descend into violence, which was an assurance he had decidedly lacked in far too many cases in Middle-Earth, and there was very little riding on it, comparatively speaking. Trade wouldn’t dry up if the conversation descended into cold silence; they would lose the support of no armies if things were not kept amicable. No one’s life was riding on this.

His heart was, a little, but he had survived this long without his parents’ affections; he could carry on well enough if they proved to be indifferent.

If Elros had been here, he would have shoved Elrond forward and told him to knock on the door already, at which point Elrond would have pointed out that Elros could very well do it himself, and he -

But Elros wasn’t here, of course. No one was here but Elrond, much to the objection of everyone else in his household. To ride out so far alone would have been unthinkable in Middle Earth, but they were safe here, as he pointed out to them. There were no orcs or bandits on this road, no raiders that would swoop down on the crystalline sea and lay siege to the small white tower he had come to.

He was safer here than he has been nearly anywhere else, and his heart was still pounding like it hadn’t since Celebrian’s horse had come back bloodied and missing a rider in a long age past.

This was nothing compared to that. Nothing at all.

And he could not stand out here forever. The chill air of autumn had already begun to grow the sharp teeth of the winter winds, and the dark clouds overhead promised a coming storm. He would need shelter, and the best by far was directly in front of him, patiently waiting for him to make up his mind.

He stepped forward, sand sliding a little beneath his feet, and knocked on the warped wood of the door.

There was no answer for a long, painful minute, and he forced himself to keep standing patiently, smile still plastered onto his face.

They could be gone. All was so still and silent - they might be in Tirion or New Doriath, visiting family there, or at some closer town for the market, or anywhere, really. He had sent no messages in front of him. He had no right to expect them to be ready and waiting with their arms open.

No right to expect anything at all.

A flash of movement drew his eyes upward to a window at the very top of the bleached stone, but the shape was gone in a moment. All was silent for another painful stretch of moments before the muffled thumps, like footsteps on wooden stairs, becomes audible even through the stone.

The door was flung open a moment later, and a figure he associated mainly with dimly remembered dreams was standing there, abruptly real.

It was his father, he was certain of that, no matter how distant the memories were. He could find barely a trace of himself in his father’s face, but the Silmaril - that cursed gem - was bound to his golden head by tendrils of blessed light, and there was only one man left who could make such a claim.

The brilliant light drew the eye enough to distract, just for a moment, from the rest of what his father was wearing, but that moment passed soon enough, and Elrond realized with a wince that from the hastily thrown on state of his father’s robes that he had almost certainly woken his father from his rest.

He hadn’t thought of that. Earendil flew through the stars at night, of course he would rest during the day, why had he not thought of that -

His father reached for him with hesitant hands, shock still all too apparent on his face. “Elrond,” he breathed. “Oh, little one - “

And then his father flung himself forward, gentle hands cupping his face as a thousand kisses were buried in his hair and rained down on his face.

“Elrond, Elrond, Elrond - “ And the arms wrapped around him, just like he remembered them doing so long ago, only this time his father didn’t have to kneel down to reach him, and Elros wasn’t there to be pressed into the embrace.

He needed to move, he realized dimly, to return the embrace, to say something at least, but he had prepared for every possibility but this one, and he could barely breathe, let alone think.

But he had found strength enough to kiss his wife and let her sail across the sea, to embrace his daughter and know it would be for the last time, and he had done much harder things than this.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised his arms and tentatively returned the embrace.

Earendil still thought he might be dreaming.

He was clinging to his son with all his strength, and he felt real, solid and safe in his arms, but it had been so long -

He was still saying his son’s name. He couldn’t seem to stop, but there was so much else he needed to say.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Elrond, I love you so much, I’m sorry - “

His breath hitched in his throat, and he clung all the tighter, pressing more kisses to his face like he could make up for all the ones he had missed. He couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, but he had to try, in the hopes that it might still make some small difference.

He wasn’t sure how long he might have stood there if the clouds overhead hadn’t stopped merely threatening rain and started delivering it.

He forced himself to draw back, though he couldn’t resist keeping one hand on Elrond’s shoulder to prove to himself there was still warm life there and not just a vision. “Come in, please, come out of the rain - “ He ushered him through the door, and forced the warped wood back into place behind them.

It was warmer inside even without a fire, and he moved to start one quickly so that the dampness of Elrond’s clothes could more easily dry. There were two chairs by the fireplace, and Earendil ushered his son to the one Elwing usually used. It was softer, more comfortable, and Elrond had come all this way -

The fire brought light to the dim room and warmed the cool stone walls. He almost hesitated to turn away from it, just in case this was the old dream, and he would turn and see Elrond had vanished.

But it was equally painful to keep his gaze away, so he turned, and there he was, warm and real and sitting carefully and politely on the very edge of his chair.

“Is - “ Elrond hesitated before forging onward. “Is . . . Lady Elwing here?”

A pained noise escaped Earendil’s throat before he could stop it.

_Mother. The title you were looking for was mother._

But that title was Elrond’s choice to bestow or withhold, and Earendil knew very well that he had lost his right to dictate it when he had listened to his wife’s tale in the middle of the sea and chosen to sail on to Valinor in the hopes of saving the people he had sworn to protect instead of turning around on the slim, desperate hope that the Feanorians would prove kinder to Elwing’s sons than her brothers.

He had chosen his duty and never mind his heart, and it had worked, they had come back with an army and won a victory they had lost all expectation of - but he had given up something he’d had no right to sacrifice, and he could not now demand to have it back.

That didn’t change the fact that if Elrond called him Lord Earendil to his face, he thought his heart might never recover.

In the meantime, Elrond had asked him a question. “She’s in New Doriath,” he said hoarsely. “She’ll be back within the week. She’ll be so happy - “ He swallowed and tried again. “She’ll be so happy you’re here.” _If you’ll stay._

He saw the same question reflected in Elrond’s face. “I wouldn’t want to impose - “

He shouldn’t interrupt, he knew he shouldn’t interrupt, but he could not for a moment let that thought stand. “Elrond. You could never be an imposition. You will _always_ be welcome here.”

The silence that stretched from that moment was far too fraught to be tolerable. He wanted to pace, to move, but he was afraid any sign of his agitation would give Elrond the wrong impression and send him right back out the door, storm or no storm.

He forced himself into his own chair instead and wished there was a subtle way to scoot it closer to his son’s.

He swallowed. “When did you arrive? We hadn’t heard . . . “ He haunted the docks for news whenever he could, but after the steady stream that had arisen when Sauron, curse him, rose once again to power, the arrivals had slowed almost to a stop, and it had grown painful to wait.

Elrond had survived the war. He had known that much.

But they had been beginning to be very much afraid that he would still refuse to sail.

“We landed only a few weeks ago,” Elrond said. “I travelled with the rest of our party as far as Tirion. Some urged me to rest longer, but Celebrian thought - “ He had been maintaining eye contact easily enough, but he looked away now, just for a moment. “She mentioned you had been kind enough to visit her sometimes,” he substituted, and Earendil could not help but wonder what he had originally been going to say.

“Not nearly as often as we would have liked,” Earendil said, and it was nothing but the honest truth. It was . . . difficult . . . to be in Tirion now, to feel the weight of unhealed grief among the throngs of people who were so eager to push all memory of grief behind them, to wear something that was at once a symbol of so much pain and a very real object that many still coveted. Had she been well, they would have invited her into their own home, but Celebrian had been in no state to travel further when she first arrived, and so there had been no choice but to travel to her. It was difficult, but for their son’s wife they could hardly help but make an effort. “We were delighted to hear of your children. Is there any chance we might - “

He cut himself off at the hint of a flinch in his son’s posture.

“The twins have not yet sailed,” he explained. “Though I have hope they yet will.”

Earendil knew well the double edge of that hope. He would never have wished it on Elrond for the world.

“Arwen . . . “ Elrond looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “She has taken the choice of Luthien. And Elros.”

Earendil closed his eyes.

He knew well the temptation of that choice. He had felt called by it himself - still occasionally felt it when he was high in the heavens above and longing to know what was beyond them.

But it was far too late for him to change his choice, and it was hard to regret it now, with his son in front of him.

He also knew well the agony of learning a child had taken it. That death was coming for them, and you were powerless to stop it, only delay it for the smallest of times.

Although really, he had known that feeling since his children were born. Morgoth had seemed to threaten the death of everything then.

“I am so sorry,” he breathed, but Elrond’s head jerked up almost defiantly.

“I am grieved,” he said fiercely, “grieved deeply, but I am not sorry. She has been brave enough to pursue what she loves, and I could never be sorry for that.”

“No,” Earendil said helplessly, “of course not, I did not mean - “

Elrond’s fire faded, and he looked down once more. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I should not have - Many people have questioned her choice. I have grown less patient than I should.”

“I don’t mind,” Earendil offered, and he didn’t, truly. Of all the words his son could rightfully hurl at him, those were laughably far from the worst.

The silence lingered, and he cast about frantically for another question.

“Who else sailed with you?”

Elrond hesitated. “Mithrandir did. He said it was his time. Galadriel as well. The rings wore us both down terribly at the end.” He frowned. “All of us, perhaps I should say, although of course for Mithrandir things were somewhat different.”

Rings.

Earendil had heard whispers of those. That they existed, everyone knew well; who they were held by everyone suspected, but proof had been lacking, and the cost of such things he had never heard spoken of.

His son looked so very, very tired.

“Frodo and Bilbo Baggins came with us as well,” Elrond said with a slightly cheerier look on his face. “I do believe they are the first hobbits to ever come to Valinor, and I am very much looking forward to seeing what they make of it.” He hesitated again. “A few other elves. No one I believe you have met.”

“Anyone I might have heard tales of, at least?”

He meant nothing by it, nothing at all but a desperation to keep the conversation moving, but Elrond froze for just a moment before settling into a more natural politeness once more.

“A singer or two,” he said lightly. “One of them wrote a few songs about you, actually - although so has Bilbo, come to that.”

Earendil was no stranger to songs about himself.

He did not much care for them.

But these were not songs from triumphant Valinor. These were songs from the war-torn East, songs minstrels had apparently felt comfortable singing in the presence of the Lord of Imladris, and he found himself far more curious than he had been in years about what they might have to say.

“Do I do them justice?” he asked, and he tried very, very hard to keep his tone light.

“I will have to see your boat before I can judge Bilbo’s,” Elrond said with a half-smile. “His was . . . very much in the mythic style.”

“Ah. I am afraid the boat might disappoint him then, though I am very willing to show it to you once this rain stops pounding quite so hard against the stone. It does fly, however, so I feel its somewhat rugged appearance must be allowed a little slack in the mythic category.”

“Of course,” Elrond agreed gravely but with a spark of mirth in his eyes. “The other - well. It was a song for children. No one expects children’s songs to have much relation to reality.”

This was, of course, broadly speaking true, but Earendil couldn’t help but be caught by the implications.

Children.

It could have been written to introduce Elrond’s own children to their family history, of course. But something about the way Elrond said it -

“Chidren’s songs?” he echoed a little hoarsely.

“He used to sing them to us,” Elrond said, and his voice was almost painfully steady. “About you and mother, and all the grand adventures you were having as you sailed back to us.” His voice gained a wistful quality. “We knew even then that he couldn’t really know what you were doing, of course, but when he sang it was hard to do anything but believe him. Elros doubted, a little, but I think I believed right up until I saw we had been granted a new star for the sky.”

_He._

It did not take a great feat of his imagination to decipher who that was. It _did_ take a great feat of his imagination to picture Maglor, son of Feanor, as someone who invented stories for the children he had kidnapped, particularly stories about how their parents were heroes who were on their way to rescue them.

He’d had nightmares for years of faceless elves in blood red clothes leaving his sons’ bodies in the pyre Sirion had become. Of his sons being left in a featureless wilderness to waste away or be devoured by orcs. Of them being kept and tormented for the sake of a jewel they could not possibly reach -

He had never once thought of them being sung to.

“We thought you were dead,” he said, and it sounded like an excuse, and there could be no excuse, not for this.

There had been reasons, and good ones, but he had been their father, and there could never be an excuse.

“We were so, so happy when we learned you weren’t - I can’t describe, how, how ecstatic I was when I learned - “ Horror had hit a moment later, horror for all he was sure they must have endured, but even that horror couldn’t entirely extinguish the desperate hope that had gripped him. “But we were forbidden from setting foot in Beleriand again, just as Finrod and all the returned were. It was miracle enough we had been granted the boat to fly above it.”

He had never understood that rule, not really, and then it had been broken for Glorfindel, of all people, and while Earendil bore the man no ill will, he did bear him a considerable amount of jealousy.

“We told ourselves you would sail. We waited at the docks for years -” They had built a cottage there and waited and waited, sure that their sons would be on the next boat even as the arrivals slowed, bit by bit. “It was too late by the time we realized you might not choose to come.”

There were tears trickling down his cheeks now, but he couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away. This was worth crying over, worth weeping over, worth howling into the uncaring winds over -

And he had, so many times, but this time was not about him.

“We could have broken their restrictions,” he acknowledged at last. “We should have, come what may, but we didn’t, and I can never apologize enough for that.”

Elrond abruptly felt ashamed of himself. “You did what was best for our people,” he acknowledged. “No one could ask for more.”

He had stood where they stood, after all; he had held an artifact of power and known he could not give it up to the Enemy, no matter what might be threatened or how precious the hostage, and it had only been luck and excessive care that had kept it from happening.

And if, in the dark of night, he had sometimes thought that Morgoth had held the Silmarils for centuries and not been noticeably more dangerous with them than without them, unlike Sauron with the rings - If he had been very certain, from a very early age, that there was a very large and crucial difference between the Feanorians and Morgoth -

There was no point in holding on to what-ifs and recriminations. He knew that only too well. There was no point in recriminations when there could be reunification instead.

It was a mantra he had held onto for long years of diplomatic endeavors and family bickering, two situations that had all too frequently overlapped. He was well used to it by now. This was no different.

But it felt different. It hurt differently because it was rooted in an old pain, from back before he had learned how to see such things from more rational perspectives.

There was still the remnant of that small child who had watched his parents disappear across the waves, each in their turn, and wondered desperately why he was not enough for them to return for.

“I did the best I could for our people,” Earendil concluded, and Elrond nodded, shoving back that childish voice, because he was far too old for childishness now, and things had not turned out so badly, regardless.

But his father hadn’t stopped there. His father -

His father was moving from his chair to kneel in front of Elrond’s, clasping his hands around Elrond’s arms as if to anchor him, and Elrond thought he might need that anchor, lest he drown in the desperation he saw welling up in his father’s eyes.

“But that meant not doing the best I could for you, and you had just as much right to it. I am sorry, Elrond. So, so, so very sorry, and sorrier yet that I will not get to say it to your brother until the breaking of the world. I cannot turn back time, cannot fix this, but if there is anything, anything at all I can do - “

“Can you say it again?” he asked, and it was childish, perhaps, but the ache was so deep - “What you said earlier, when you greeted me - “

It took his father barely a moment to remember. “I’m sorry,” he repeated hoarsely. “And I love you. More than the stars above, more than the hallowed light, more than the ocean’s depths, I love you.”

It was everything he had wanted to hear as a child, and if it did not quite erase millennia of wondering and the faint shadow of distrust still lingering on his heart, it was at least enough to build on.

Enough to temporarily throw away decorum and politeness and throw himself forward into his father’s arms and say right back, “I love you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was drawing near to nightfall, and still the wind howled like the wolves of Beleriand. Earendil dreaded the moment he would have to wade his way out into the storm that he might bear his light across the skies.

Although to be fair, that wasn’t the only reason he was dreading that moment. Tonight that moment would also mean leaving Elrond behind, if only for a few hours, and the idea of looking away from his son for so long was painful.

Even more painful was the inevitable parallel that nagged at him. He had left his son for the sake of duty once, and now, to do it again –

Of course, his son would be in no danger here, unlike he was in Sirion, and Elrond was unlikely to have any real need of him in the hours he was away, but – 

Still. He wished that for just this one night, he could set the duty aside and remain here. With the clouds as heavy as they were, few people would even glimpse the light.

But he knew well that the clouds would lighten the further he travelled, and the light and hope of the Silmaril was needed even on the darkest and wildest of nights. Especially then. 

Before then, however, he could luxuriate in this moment a little longer: the warmth and light of the fire dancing through the kitchen, the rich scent of the stew he was stirring wafting through the room, and, most importantly of all, his son just behind him, retrieving the bowls and spoons from where Earendil had told him they were stored.

Elrond was humming something as he worked, and Earendil couldn’t help but wonder at the tune. It was hardly surprising he didn’t recognize it; by all reports, Imladris had been a center for new music among the elves, and he could well imagine just how many new songs must have been written between the arrival of the last batch of boats from Imladris and Elrond’s arrival.

But he wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about his son.

“It’s a lovely tune,” he said when Elrond paused at what sounded like the end of a verse. “Will you sing it?”

A faint flush spread over Elrond’s cheeks. “I’m afraid it’s one of the songs I told you about earlier,” he confessed. “The day’s events brought it rather unavoidably to mind.”

“Bilbo’s song of my mythic boat or the other?” he asked, though his lightness was a little forced now. 

“The other. I’ll leave it to Bilbo to introduce you to his work. I think only he can do the proper justice to it.”

“I look forward to it,” Earendil said, but his attention refused to turn entirely to the little hobbit Elrond had been so happy to tell him about as the afternoon had worn on. 

The other song. The children’s song that had been written in his sons’ youth by a singer who –

By a singer, he realized, that Elrond had said had sailed with him.

He’d been told that hours earlier, but he had been distracted by the content of the song and had forgotten to consider its composer in any detail, even after he had realized the song must have been written by a Feanorian, either one of the princes themselves or one of their accursed followers.

He had gotten that far, but he had skipped over the key detail that they had sailed with Elrond.

If it was one of their followers, it was not so great a thing that they were present in Aman. Others had been released from Mandos already, particularly among those who had not fought at Sirion or Doriath.

But there was a difference between knowing that somewhere out there in this land were those that wore Feanorian red and knowing that one of them had imposed enough on his son to travel with him.

And if it wasn’t just a follower . . .

It was a ridiculous, irrational thought, but Earendil still froze for a moment before he could bring himself to go back to stirring the stew.

“You said the composer returned with you?” He fought to keep his voice light. He was not upset with Elrond, no matter what the response might be. He only – wanted to know. Needed to know.

The moment of silence stretched out too long, and he looked over his shoulder and saw that Elrond had frozen in place just as Earendil himself had done not a moment before.

“Yes,” Elrond said, and he only paused for a moment before hurrying on. “He wrote a great many others as well. I would be happy to sing one of those, if you would like.”

He should accept the deflection, Earendil knew. If Elrond did not wish to speak of it, he should respect that decision. It was not his place to pry into memories where he wasn’t wanted.

He just didn’t think he could force his voice to sound as it ought if he opened his mouth now.

Elrond gathered up the bowls and came to join him by the fire. The forced cheer of his last words was gone, and it had been replaced by something quieter. Cautious.

“Imladris was always open to all, so long as they kept the peace,” he said quietly. “We had many survivors from Ost-in-Edhil there. Technically, I suppose they were all Feanorians, since they had all followed Celebrimbor, but there were several among them that had followed his uncles or father before him. They were as welcome as anyone.”

“That must have taken a great deal of strength.” His voice came out hoarser than he would have liked.

Elrond tilted his head contemplatively. “It did, at times, although not in the way I think you are suggesting. In the early days, it took a great deal of patience – and occasionally a great deal of vocal strength – to get the various factions to set old ills behind them. But I never minded seeing a quiet flash of the eight pointed star, though it took a great deal of convincing to get Gil-Galad to see that. Elros would have understood at once, but those who weren’t there – “ He cut himself off.

The implication was clear. Those who weren’t there didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, must always be set a little apart.

And it was true. He didn’t understand.

But he wanted to.

“Can you explain?” he asked softly.

Elrond looked at him for a long moment, but Earendil felt like his son’s eyes were looking into the depths of his soul, weighing what he found.

“To explain what happened later, you have to understand why they took us,” he said at long last. “Partly, of course, it was because their Oath drove them on towards the Silmarils, and while we were an unlikely path to achieving that goal, it was just barely possible that someday you might return and offer an exchange. But it was also true that with the city in ruins, it was unsafe to leave us there alone, particularly when no one could be sure whether Gil-Galad or the orcs would investigate the destruction first. No one wanted to repeat the tragedy of Doriath, least of all Maedhros, especially after they had just lost their own twin brothers. It was Maglor who found us, and Maglor who took responsibility for us, but Maedhros – “ 

Elrond turned his attention to the fire and looked into it for a long moment.

“I think Maedhros would have gone mad if they had lost us.” The words were slow, confessional, and Earendil wondered if this was the first time Elrond had tried to explain it in quite these terms. “He had lost too much to bear anything more, and if we had been lost in the woods as our uncles had been – Well, we were, once, after a hunting party we were allowed to go on was ambushed. I never saw him so desperately relieved as the moment he found us. We were no use to him at all by that point, not for the Silmaril, it was already in the sky, but he still – “ Elrond shook the memory away.

Earendil did not want to think about his sons lost in the woods after their hunting party was ambushed by orcs. He particularly did not want to have to feel grateful to kinslayers for finding them after this had happened.

He did. Just a bit.

“They never lied to us. Maedhros was very insistent on that. I wondered, later, if it had something to do with his time at Angband that made him so very determined on that point. He was insistent that we be allowed to say what we liked about them too. In the early days, when we were still frightened, or later, if our temper got riled, we would spit out some truly venomous things, but he would just stand there until we were done and then nod and walk away. It was important to him that we could feel safe enough to feel what we liked and express it.”

“And Maglor?” he asked carefully.

Elrond smiled. “Oh, Maglor could never just stand still and then nod after he had been insulted. He had to teach us how to do it better. Apparently, some of the tribes of men he had known had made something of an art out of crafting insults, and he said that back in Tirion they had done the same thing in verse, and he was determined that we not lose either part of our heritage.”

“You sound almost fond of them.”

“They raised us,” Elrond said, and his voice was quiet, but not apologetic. “They kept us safe from every horror that roamed the world then, even at the cost of their own blood. They sang us to sleep and taught us to fight, and it still wasn’t right, what they did, but they did their best afterward.”

“And they let you go to Gil-Galad, in the end.” It was the only thing Earendil was yet willing to grant them. He had never understood that decision before. He thought he might glimpse it a little now, but he would wrestle it with it more fully later. For now, he was less concerned with how he felt than with making sure that Elrond did not regret confessing this to him.

“They did,” Elrond said with a wry smile, “though we did not thank them for it at the time. We’d had enough of change by then.” He looked down at his hands. “That was what I loved Maglor for best, I think,” he said quietly. “So many people had to leave, for good reasons and bad, and for the longest time, he was the only one who ever came back.”

The words hung in the air.

No one knew what had become of the last son of Feanor.

Except, it seemed, his son.

“The singer.”

Elrond’s eyes flashed up to his. “It isn’t widely known,” he said. “The Valar allowed it, but I thought it better not to spread the word too far. I could not bear it if – “ 

His son had spoken of how Maedhros had been pushed too far, of how he could not bear to lose anyone else.

Earendil did not think the prince had been alone in that.

For his part, he could not bear to hurt his son by taking anything else from him, through word or deed.

So even though he still did not really understand, even though his heart ached at the tale, he said, “None shall ever hear it from me.”

His son’s shoulders went loose from relief, and Earendil had to look away. The stew was ready, and that was a good excuse. He could ladle it out and take comfort in the fact that now, at least, he could provide, and not leave it to kinslayers to care for his son.

But that was not how his son saw it, and he truly did want to understand, so he said, “Will you tell me more?”

It was absolutely worth it when he saw the first hint of true trust in his son’s brilliant smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to end it here, instead of with the "I love you," because I think for Elrond this was truly be the larger step. He is fully prepared to love his parents - he already does. Confessing it is a step forward, but one he doesn't need too great of a push to make. Trusting them is a different matter, and so I judged it the greater triumph.


End file.
